Running Free
by Lothloriel
Summary: One-shot about Edmund, set seven years into the Golden Age. Lots of warm fuzzies.


_**This world and its inhabitants belong to C.S. Lewis. I am borrowing them for my own amusement and will return them unharmed. **_

**8ooo8ooo8ooo8**

_A tiny dark-haired baby, pulling himself up against the table, and with a look of fierce concentration, taking a step and then another on his chubby baby feet, building speed until he is running, not stopping until he topples into his mother's waiting arms, and rising, and beginning again…_

Edmund's feet barely touch the ground. He runs with his head thrown back, the wind whipping his black hair all about his face, the ends snapping against his cheeks and ears. He wears no armor, bears no weapon; dressed only in tunic, breeches, and soft boots, he is free and uninhibited, a creature not of the earth, but the air.

Behind him pant several Dogs, and a Leopard, but they are hard-pressed, and are already beginning to lag. Edmund doesn't even look at them as they drop further and further behind. His gaze is focused straight ahead, never wavering, concentrated with the singleness of purpose and force of character that all of Narnia had come to understand about their young King.

_The same dark-haired child, barely out of his pudgy toddler years, running barefoot through the grass with his tall blond brother, laughing as he pulls ahead, gleefully touching "base" and turning to run back, not even breathing hard as he reaches the finish mark and begins to cheer and applaud his own victory…_

He reaches the dusty path, and breathes lightly through his mouth, never breaking stride. Already he is loosening, relaxing, the feel of the ground beneath his feet and the wind in his hair calming him, freeing him from his body. He doesn't even see the path before him, his mind occupied with too many other thoughts.

Why, and Who, and How…the questions sound more like a murder-mystery in a dime-novel than something a King would constantly ponder, analyzing from every angle. Why am I here, who am I, how can I rule as my people deserve? He has never dared to ask if Peter, too, is plagued by these questions; it is something he must solve for himself. But really, before he can answer them, he has first to define them, and it seemed his definitions kept changing.

_A boy now, teetering on the edge of maturity, who no longer revels in the run, but uses it as an escape, running from his brother, from his schoolmates, from anyone who would talk to him, who would force him to open his eyes and see the world beyond his own hurt, running as far and as fast as he possibly can, but never able to outrun that which he fears the most, himself…_

Seven years he has been in Narnia, grown now to a slender, steel-strong manhood. Seven years of wearing his silver crown and ruling a country he had once betrayed. Seven years, learning to deserve his title of The Just, nearly half his life he has lived here now. He knows he has grown into a better man, and a stronger man, but he knows he is not perfect and he struggles, still to find the balance within himself.

Aslan has brought him here, he knows, and that gives him the comfort that he is doing right, but Aslan is not there to guide each action. He has had to learn to be his own master, to do what is right for the sake of what is right, and to learn to be wise so he can advise his brother and sisters. He has worked harder every day of the last seven years, physically and mentally, than he ever had before, but he has never been happier than he is now, flying along the green hills of Narnia.

_Tied with a rope, walking and walking, at a speed that is nearly a run, but his feet are awkwardly hobbled, forcing him to a waddling sort of a trot, a whip cracking behind him and curling about his ankles if he dares to slow, the laughter of the Witch behind him, and nothing before him, nothing but dirty grey sludge and water dripping from the trees to run down his collar and down his face like the tears that he cannot shed…_

He crests a hill and leaves the path, curving south over soft grass still covered in dew. It is colder here, under the shadow of the trees, and he slows for just a moment, breathing deeply of the Narnian air. No other scent compares, and it is still startling, even now, the sheer sensation of breathing in and tasting pure, clean air with the tang of green and growing things, and sea-air, and, faintly, a rich golden perfume sweeter than any flower.

It is hard now to remember a time when he did not run this way, indeed hard to remember any other time but this, these glorious days of rising, and working, and resting. He bends all his abilities to the problems of kingship, to the diplomatic knots that must be untangled and the difficult justice that must be dispensed, and his soul has healed from the wounds left by a distant war and faded treachery.

_Running now in full armor, up and down stairs and across fields of broken rocks, through six inches of water and down steep hills, running and dodging and swearing quietly as he tries to balance his weight and account for the sword at his side, swearing harder as he sees Peter ahead of him, wearing the armor as if it were nothing, waving Rhindon above his head, and his eyes narrow in determination to best this as he has so many other things…_

Now he is on an open stretch of fresh grass, level and clear, and with a deeper breath, Edmund really begins to run. His long legs seem to skim the earth, and the wind whistles in his ears with a new intensity. This is speed that few in Narnia can challenge, that none could sustain for long. As he flashes past, a pheasant explodes out of nearby tall grass, squawking her panic at this rude awakening, but he doesn't hear.

The seconds are both racing by and barely moving, each one counted by two heartbeats. He can feel the blood pulsing through his veins, and unbidden, he remembers the sensation of blood seeping between his fingers, the feel of it bubbling from his veins and the soft patter of the droplets hitting the ground. With an effort of will, he shakes the memory free, leaving it blowing in the wind behind him as he slackens his pace and veers to the east, back towards Cair Paravel.

_It began idly, as a way to rid himself of a boy's hyperactivity, and at first he ran with others, keeping pace with the Fauns and Dogs, quickly passing them, running with the Cats, carrying on conversations as he ran between two Centaurs, really thinking nothing of it until the day when he lapped them all, and continued long past the time when the others had stopped, not realizing, not noticing anything but the feel of the ground beneath him…_

He is nearing the castle, and his escort drops in behind him again, the Dogs barking aggrievedly, the Leopard flowing along the ground in silence. Edmund is nearly at the end of this daily journey, questions catalogued and marked, conclusions reached, and now that his mind is clear, he begins to notice the singular beauty of the path he is on.

He loops around the castle and slows to a walk as he reaches the cliff that protects Cair Paravel from eastward attack. The Sea is Lucy's domain, and Edmund has always preferred his woods, but today, as always, he is captivated by the sight of the golden sun spilling over the horizon, lighting both sea and sky with purples, greens and brilliant blue. He is poised on the edge of the cliff, slim body swaying gently as he raises a hand in silent salute to the East, and now, at last, he is ready for the day.

_Every time, after that, every time he was worried, confused or upset, every time he just needed time to think, to clear his mind, or simply because he loved to do it, he would run. Even as the years passed, and he grew taller, and the runs became less frequent, still, every morning without fail, Edmund would be up before the sun, running through the Cair, and soon those who lived about the castle grew used to it, seeing their young King flying past, rain or shine or snow…Edmund ran._

**8ooo8ooo8ooo8**


End file.
